by T. E. Cruise
“Shalom, Mister Gold. I’m here to meet you …” The guy took Steve’s arm and gently steered him away from the rest of the passengers. Only then did he flash a picture I.D. “I’m Dov Sachar. Lieutenant Sachar, of the IAF.”
“Israeli Air Force?” Steve murmured, looking the guy over. He was in his thirties, thin, and hawk-nosed, with longish, auburn hair.
“I apologize for not addressing you by rank just now, Colonel, but as you’re aware, we’d much prefer that your visit here pass unnoticed.”
“Sure, I understand. How’d you recognize me?”
“I had a picture, not that I needed it.” He smiled. “We don’t get many tourists wearing one of those.”
Steve looked down at himself. He was wearing white sneakers, tan chinos, a navy blue cotton polo shirt, and his A-2. “You must be referring to my flight jacket … Sorry about that. I know I’m not supposed to be in uniform, but I figured an old World War Two jacket wouldn’t give me away.”
“No problem,” the Israeli said.
“Thanks.” Steve smiled. Because I’m not giving this jacket up, he added to himself. He’d worn the A-2 during his stint in the Pacific and in Korea, and in both war zones things had gone just fine. The only time he hadn’t had this jacket was in Vietnam … “I’ve gotten kind of superstitious about having it with me, you see …”
“Like I said, no problem,” the Israeli repeated. “Leather jackets are very popular here, although I must say that I’ve never seen one like yours,” he added, studying the squadron and USAAF patches that adorned the jacket’s front and shoulders, and looking at the faded, painted design that took up almost the entire back: a turquoise shield emblazoned with two large, scarlet vees in its upper left and lower right corners. Connecting the vees, running diagonally from upper left to lower right was a scarlet lightning bolt.
“What’s this stand for, Colonel?” the Israeli asked, pointing to the shield.
“The Vigilant Virgins,” Steve replied.
“The what?”
Steve shook his head, smiling. “It’s a long story, pal. It starts in the Solomon Islands, around 1943. Maybe we can get into it another time …” He paused. “I’m sorry, but what’d you say your name was?”
“Dov.”
“Got it.” Steve nodded. “Like the bird.”
“Good one!” Dov grinned obligingly. “If you’ll follow me, we can skip customs and passport check-in. Your bags are being collected. They’ll be waiting for us at the car.”
“You speak English fairly well,” Steve remarked as Dov led him out through a guarded gate toward the parking area.
“I ought to, Colonel. I was born in Albuquerque.”
“I see … and your folks named you Dov…?”
“My parents named me Leon, Colonel,” the Lieutenant replied patiently. “I changed my name when I came here to live.” He paused in front of an old-looking, dark blue Mercedes-Benz four-door sedan. “Well, here we are.”
“This is the car?” Steve murmured.
“Yeah.” Dov opened the trunk, and then stood aside so that Steve could check to see that all of his luggage had been loaded. “You look perturbed, Colonel. Are we missing any bags?”
“No, nothing’s wrong … But I do have a question …”
“So ask.”
“Well, this is a Mercedes,” Steve began. “A German car,” he added carefully. “Pardon me for saying this, but considering what happened to the Jews in Germany, and all … Well, I’m kind of surprised the IAF would—”
“Yeah, I get the idea,” Dov cut him off. “Look, in this country we must be practical, Colonel. We cannot afford otherwise.” He smiled. “Why bite off our own nose to spite our face? Mercedes builds good cars.”
Steve gestured to the front passenger side of the Mercedes. “Can I ride shotgun?”
“Climb in, Colonel.”
“Call me Steve,” he said as he settled back against the Mercedes’ red leather upholstery. His father had told him about how informal the Israelis were concerning titles.
Dov started up the engine and pulled away. “What’s next is up to you, Steve. We can go directly to the flat in Tel Aviv where you can get some rest, or we can go out to the base where we’ve got the MIG—”
“Let’s go to the base,” Steve said, taking out his cigarettes. “I want a look at that MIG.” He winked at Dov. “That way I’ll have something to dream about when I do go to sleep.”
“The base it is,” Dov said.
“Smoke?” Steve asked, offering the pack to Dov.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” Dov replied, reaching for a cigarette.
They followed a blacktop road out of the airport, through a densely settled rural area. The traffic was heavy, the drivers aggressive in their worn-out midget, foreign automobiles and trucks. Seemingly oblivious to the strident mechanized traffic were the Arabs in their ancient-looking horse-drawn carts plodding along the road’s shoulder. Mixed in with the stink of engine exhaust and horse manure was the salty tang of the sea, the scent of eucalyptus, and the aroma of oranges.
“I didn’t know the Arabs still wore all that Sheik of Araby stuff,” Steve remarked. “The flowing robes, and that headdress thing, and all …”
“Here, the more things change, the more they remain the same,” Dov said as he slowed, and then turned off onto a dirt road pretty much vacant of traffic. “Downtown Tel Aviv is just a couple more kilometers the way we were going,” he said as the Mercedes bounced and rattled its way over the mounds and ruts. “Forgive the condition of the road,” he added, glancing at Steve. “The rainy season has ended only a few weeks ago. The damage done has yet to be repaired.”
Steve studied the terrain. They’d left the ocean breezes and towns and villages behind. Here the hilly landscape was covered with thorny, dark green scrub above which oak trees with thick, gnarled trunks spread their branches wide.
“What’s that sweet smell?” Steve asked.
“Carob,” Dov replied. “Usually it grows northward of here, but we’ve planted some to see what’ll happen.”
“This all reminds me somewhat of the American Southwest.”
“Somewhat,” Dov agreed. “Like certain parts of Arizona, maybe …”
“Right.” Steve chuckled. “I keep forgetting you were born in America.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dov smiled. “Lots of times I forget, too.”
The Mercedes slowed to turn left onto an even narrower road, and rounded a bend to come upon a checkpoint gate barring the way. A pair of bearded soldiers armed with matt black machine pistols, and wearing berets and desert camo uniforms, appeared from out of a tent along the side of the road. The soldiers gave the Mercedes a hard look as it rolled to a stop. Steve heard Dov and the sentries grunt and cough their way through an exchange in Hebrew, and then the guards waved them on.
“All of our air bases are secret, of course,” Dov explained wryly as they drove away. “But this one is really secret …”
Over the Mercedes’ mellow rumble Steve heard the buzz saw sound of higher-pitched engines revving. He looked back to see another pair of armed soldiers astride motorcycles quickly overtaking them. The cyclists managed to find the room on the narrow road to whizz past, and then took up escort positions in front of the Mercedes.
“This way no other sentries will challenge us,” Dov said.
They drove a few more kilometers, rounded another bend in the road, and the air base came into view. The setup reminded Steve of the rugged, World War II frontline bases the Seabees had racheted together for the Marine VMF and the USAAF fighter squadrons in the Pacific. The Israeli base’s facilities were spread out, to decrease the likelihood of losing everything in an air attack. Hidden among the groves of trees was a squat, prefab, flight control/operations complex surrounded by skeletal radar and radio towers, and a half dozen low-slung airplane hangars. Camouflage netting strung high from poles and tree branches formed a protective canopy over the vehicle and airplane parking are
as. As they drove past, Steve heard the high-pitched whistle of a jet engine, and saw a dun-colored, delta-winged, Tyran II fighter emblazoned with the blue and white, six-pointed Star of David taxiing out from beneath the netting, toward the concrete runways.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Dov asked, gesturing toward the plane.
“You bet.” Steve glanced at him. “I never asked you, Dov. Are you a pilot?”
“No,” the Israeli said sadly. “I wish I were. Like most of us in the Air Force I tried to take the training—we need fighter pilots desperately—but I washed out. So I serve in administration.”
“You live here full time?”
“No, only the pilots and maintenance crews live here,” Dov said. “Over there on the other side of the control tower are a number of flower gardens. Interspersed among them are the living quarters.”
“Who did all the landscaping?” Steve asked.
“The pilots and the air crews, of course,” Dov said, sounding as if he’d been surprised by the question. “They do it in their spare time.”
“I can’t imagine American Air Force personnel spending their off-duty hours gardening,” Steve said, amused.
“Here, we’re glad to do it,” Dov replied seriously as he pulled up in front of a tan-painted hangar. He shut off the motor and then turned slightly in his seat to face Steve. “You see, we never tire of tending to our country. For so very long we didn’t have one, so now we don’t take anything for granted.”
“I understand,” Steve said softly, feeling a bit ashamed about all the things that Americans took for granted.
“Well, you go on into the hangar and take your first look at the MIG,” Dov said. “I’ll run over to Operations and let them know you’re here.”
Steve got out of the car and went into the open hangar. His heart was pounding with excitement. She was there, all right, caged beneath the ceiling lights—
A M1G-21—The delta-winged beauty was the latest brilliant product of the awesome collaboration between Artem Mioyan and Mikhail Gurevich, Russia’s premier aircraft designers. It was the MIG-21 that was the burr under the blankets of the Thud drivers and Phantom crews in Vietnam’s mist-shrouded skies, and until now, U.S. Intelligence had been forced to make do with grainy, blurred, recon photos of the Soviets’ most advanced war bird on the ground or in flight—
Until now—
Steve slowly walked around the MIG, luxuriating in the opportunity to meticulously look her over. It was hard to concentrate; he couldn’t believe his luck. To a fighter jock there could be nothing more desirable than being given the opportunity to check out the competition …
Steve heard a car pulling up outside the hangar. Probably Dov, come back to hijack me to some boring briefing, he thought, and hurried to finish his preliminary inspection.
The MIG’s exterior was drab gray. She had until very recently belonged to the Iraqi Air Force, but now that country’s insignia had been expunged from the MIG’s wings and fuselage, replaced by the Star of David. She was just a bit over fifty feet long, with a stubby, twenty-four-foot wingspan. Like earlier series MIGs, the 21 had a wide snout that served to duct air to her engine, but unlike any other jet fighter that Steve had seen, the 21 had a conical radar pod protruding out of the nose duct’s center, the way the ink tip protrudes from out of the barrel of a retractable ballpoint pen. Her canopy was unique as well. It was neither bubble-shaped like earlier MIGs, nor the teardrop design favored by most U.S. fighter designers. Instead, the 21’s canopy extended flush and level from the jet’s dorsal spine.
A questionable design choice, Steve thought. Sure, drag would be somewhat reduced, but rearward visibility would be poor to nil, and in a fighter, visibility was life—
“Well? What do you think?” A male voice demanded from the hangar’s doorway. “Is she everything you thought she’d be, and more?”
Steve whirled around in disbelief. “Benny?” he called out. “Benny Detkin—?”
Benny came over to embrace Steve. He was wearing gray wool trousers, a tan shirt, and a pine green pullover sweater. Steve thought his old friend’s short-cut, thick black hair was only slightly more seeded with gray than the last time they’d met.
“Welcome to Israel—” Benny said. “Or should I say shalom, old buddy?”
“You can say anything you want,” Steve shot back fondly. “As long as you also say what the hell you’re doing here—”
“And just look at that jacket you’re wearing!” Benny was laughing. “Man, that old A-2 brings back memories! I don’t have mine anymore,” he complained. “Amy threw it out on me when I wasn’t looking.”
“That’s what you get for being married, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Are you on vacation, or here for some kind of charity work?”
Steve knew that Benny was a big wheel in stateside Jewish philanthropies, and pro-Israel political lobbies, but he realized none of that would explain what his friend was doing wandering around this supposedly top-secret air base…
“This is going to be hard for me to explain, Steve …” Benny awkwardly began. Just then Dov Sachar stepped into the hangar.
“Excuse me …” Dov called out. “Colonel?”
“Yes?” Both Steve and Benny said in unison.
“Sorry.” Dov smiled. “I meant Colonel Detkin …”
“You meant who?” Steve blurted weakly, staring at Benny.
“Major Yakkov has a little more paperwork to get out of the way but promised to meet you in the mess,” Sachar continued.
“Thanks, Dov,” Benny replied.
“What the fuck are you a colonel of?” Steve demanded as Dov left the hangar.
“Of the Israeli Air Force …” Benny said.
“You can’t be! You’re an American citizen—”
“It gets worse, old buddy,” Benny reluctantly confessed. “I’m also in the Mossad.”
“I became a Reserve Status IAF colonel, and a Mossad agent, five years ago,” Benny was telling Steve.
It was late afternoon. The two men were seated at a table in the largely deserted air base mess. There were mugs of strong tea, and slices of honey cake on the table in front of them, but Steve, despite the fact that he was tired and hungry, hadn’t touched the food. He was too pissed off to eat.
“You see, I already had the perfect cover,” Benny continued. “Over the years I’d established a legitimate history of traveling frequently to Israel on behalf of various causes—”
“All of which are totally legal, aboveboard activities,” Steve sharply interrupted. “Endeavors protected by the U.S. Constitution, which by the way, specifically condemns what you’ve done …”
“Why are you sounding so angry?” Benny asked mildly.
“I find out my best friend is a fucking foreign spy, why shouldn’t I be angry?”
“I’m not a spy,” Benny said patiently.
“I thought you were an American!”
“I am—”
“Oh yeah? Answer me this,” Steve demanded. “If there was a war between Israel and America, on whose side would you be on?”
“That’s a stupid question …” Benny grumbled.
“You mean it’s one you can’t answer.”
“Look, Steve, I’m telling you that I’m not a spy. I’m a—” Benny paused. “I guess you’d call me a fixer … I smooth things out, put people in touch with one another. Get things done—”
“Illegal things!” Steve scowled, lighting a cigarette.
“Things like getting your father to cooperate in smuggling the Vector-A systems to Israel,” Benny quietly amended.
“Yeah, and that was against the law—and you a lawyer!”
“Technically, yes, like most of what I do for Israel, the Vector-A project was against United States law,” Benny admitted. “But if we asked your father, I think he’d agree that we were conducting ourselves according to a higher moral imperative. This is not a game where Israel can play by the rules. Survival is what’s
at stake.”
“Oh, man—” Steve winced, disgusted. “Don’t you see? The Arabs could say that, as well …”
“Listen a minute,” Benny insisted. “You read the papers, you watch the news on television. You know the score. For a year now the border skirmishes between the Arab states and Israel have been increasing. Now, once again, our old Egyptian friend Nasser is rattling his saber, making speeches to his Arab neighbors about how it’s time to make another stab at driving the Israelis into the sea.”
“That’s why the U.N. is here,” Steve said.
“The U.N. can’t be depended on,” Benny countered. “Last month this country defended itself by striking at a Jordanian village from which Arab guerillas were conducting border raids. For that, Israel received an official censure from the U.N., but nobody is censuring the Arabs. Believe me, when Nasser says jump, the only question the U.N. will ask is how high. When the Arabs are ready for war, the peace-keeping force will pull out, and Israel will once again be on its own.”
“You keep referring to the Israelis as ‘they’ and ‘them,’” Steve observed. “Don’t you consider yourself an Israeli?”
“Of course I don’t,” Benny said. “Why would I? I’m an American. Sure, I love what Israel stands for, but I also love my native country. I’ve tried to serve America all my life. I served her in war, as you well know—”
“Sure, I know that, Benny,” Steve sighed.
“—and I truly believe I’m serving America now, by aiding Israel. Israel is America’s only steadfast ally in this part of the world.”
“I can’t argue with that, either.”
“So?” Benny smiled tentatively. “You still mad?”
“No … I was never mad, I was just …” Steve trailed off, not knowing how to explain it, and not sure he wanted to. As a warrior he’d always seen things in black and white: America was right and everyone else was wrong, period. That mindset had held up through World War II, and against the Commies in Korea, but it had started to become unglued after his experience in Vietnam. Now, hearing about what Benny had been up to all these years, he no longer knew what to think. Benny had broken the law, and yet he knew his old friend to be a stand-up guy … Maybe there wasn’t always a right and a wrong side to things. Maybe the end sometimes did justify the means …